


The Firestorm and the Moth

by Merovignian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Awful Creepy Shit, Coffee Shops, Episode Fix-it, Eventually. Sort of., F/M, Look SOMEBODY had to do it, Michael Distortion Is A Little Shit, No beta we kayak like Tim, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, This will be Cute Eventually I Promise, local idiot tries to court Fire Antichrist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merovignian/pseuds/Merovignian
Summary: Agnes doesn't die when she was supposed to, and her game of acting like a human just keeps ticking on.Chapter 4: Candles at Christmas part 1Agnes is not a festive person, but you have to try.
Relationships: Jack Barnabas/Agnes Montague
Comments: 28
Kudos: 40





	1. The Splintered Tree

**Author's Note:**

> With Season 5 finally here, the time has come to get off my ass and actually write my ideas down before Jonny destroys them.

When she felt the tree splinter inside her heart, Agnes Montague knew that she was dead.  
  
Oh, the tree's fall wouldn't be enough to kill her. Few things would. The setback could delay the Scoured Earth, but it had been delayed often enough already, had it not? That didn't mean it could be stopped.  
  
The rites, the religious trappings, the gathering of power; all that set dressing helped, but it wasn't really needed if the foundation was there - after all, it would burn away like everything else in the apocalyptic fire Agnes knew would come when she called to her desolate patron. It wasn't a simple thing to act with broken props, but if her mind was sound and her purpose pure, she could perform on a bare stage with no problems.   
  
_If._  
  
And it was that one little word, forcing her to confront the doubt that was festering in her heart like mould inside an avatar of Filth, that convinced Agnes that she had to die.  
  
Or rather, it would have been.  
  
There she was, steadying herself in that dirty little payphone to which she staggered, hand on heart, ignoring the clueless boy who babbled and jabbered in her ear as her head spun and her stomach churned, willing herself to pick up the phone and make the call and have it all _end_ , when everything...stopped.  
  
The pain stopped.  
  
The fear stopped.  
  
Ivo Lensik stopped, for reasons we don't need to go into right now. The tree on Hilltop Road, though damaged, endured. And Agnes felt a surge of relief.

It didn't last long, but it was long enough for the doubt to set in on a new subject.  
  
That's the funny thing about doubt; it's indiscriminate in its targets. The same nagging fear that perhaps she was flawed, that maybe her curiosity and interest in the world outside the cult could jeopordize her holy purpose, worked just as well on her desire to kill herself. What if she were overreacting? What if she could fix things? What if, instead of allowing her wasted power to return safely to the Flame, she was squandering their best chance?  
  
Without the spear of terror that the tree's falling would have left in her heart, she didn't quite have the confidence to decide on a plan, and certainly didn't have it in her to take the plunge she had so desperately been steeling herself for.  
  
And so her fear ate away at her determination to die just as surely as it had chewed holes in her faith, until Agnes Montague dropped the phone back into its reciever and stepped out into the cold November night.  
  
*  
  
"Are you _sure_ you're alright?"  
  
This is the third time he's said that. The repetition annoys her, as so many things do, but as with so many things Agnes wills herself to bottle it up and bite back her anger, her bile, her _fire_.  
  
"Yes."  
  
She doesn't need to see the look on his face to know that he doesn't believe her. But the pain is fading and she can feel a little strength coming back into her limbs, so why not? Isn't it obvious that she's fine, totally fine? His innocent efforts at friendliness and attention remind her of the puppies she tried to pet when she lived alone on Hilltop Road, and she's angry at his nagging, right? So surely she wants to blast him apart like she did those poor animals when she reached out to them all those years ago, right?  
  
No.  
  
No, she doesn't want to, and she doesn't know why. How ironic, Agnes thinks bitterly, to be bound to the Eye's pupil and yet know _nothing_.  
  
As the silence drags awkwardly on she realises a few more words are necessary. Agnes fiddles with her hair as she figures out what to say, twirling it through her fingers like she used to when she was a child wearing pigtails, playing with it in a way no other living thing could do without losing their hand. Like she always did when people tried to talk to her, as she struggled to think of anything to say in response.  
  
"It was a...false alarm," The words do nothing for the fear on his face and she has to fix it, to put this to rest. Because his questions annoy her, obviously. And for no other reason at all.  
  
"My health. I-" She can't explain any more than that. "I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"Okay." He raises his hands placatingly. He's so obviously afraid, concerned, but - and Agnes is a conisseur of fear, she knows exactly what he's thinking - he's afraid _for her_. It's an odd concept.

"I-if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I won't pry. But-" Jack Barnabas bites his lip, a delaying action, his own version of her little hair twirl - "If you need to call someone, you don't need to use the payphone. You can use my phone if you like?" He holds his fliphone before her like a peace offering, "Do you need to go to the hospital? Is there a friend you can call? Anything like that?"  
  
No hospital could help her, and she has no friends.  
  
"No."  
  
She feels so very tired.  
  
"I'm going home."  
  
Home where it would be cold and quiet and lonely, the very antithesis of the Lightless Flame. Where she would be alone with her thoughts, her choices and her failures. Alone to convince herself to-  
  
"Agnes, can I walk you back?"  
  
*  
  
It's almost a ritual. Every time one of their dates comes to end (often quite abruptly, with Agnes just pausing and declaring it then and there, making Jack fear that he's offended), he asks if he can walk her home. That's what you're supposed to say, right? She always declines, but she does it politely, and that strange almost-smile she wears, the one that reassures him that perhaps he isn't boring her, isn't annoying her, that maybe this deeply strange but heart-meltingly charming girl likes him in the same way he likes her...widens. Just a little.  
  
So he asks it again.  
  
This time, it's as much a plea as anything else. _Please let me see you home safely, please let me know you're alright._ Panicky thoughts of what just happened to her run together in his head, the pain and the way she clutched her chest bringing forth images of allergies and heart problems and strokes. But for some reason he can't shake the feeling that there's something more to it than that, some huge and awful thing he can't even begin to grasp.  
  
What he can grasp, though it isn't exactly reassuring, is this: for the first time since he met her, Agnes seems to be upset, even frightened. Jack doesn't understand much about this lovely, bizarre person who has somehow become part of his life, but it isn't exactly difficult to see that she's in a bad place, and he'd be a pretty poor excuse of a sort-of boyfriend if he didn't have her back. Not that he thinks a thirty-year old barista is likely to be anyone's ideal knight in shining armour, but he has to at least _try._  
  
She doesn't smile this time. But she doesn't say no, either. She just stares for a few seconds with that trapped-in-the-headlights gaze of hers, then silently nods.  
  
He's surprised when she reaches out, grabs the sleeve of his coat and pulls him towards her; he's never thought about it too hard before, but he's noticed that she always keeps her distance. There's nothing weird about that, of course. He does the same; they haven't dated long, and he doesn't want to be pushy, to creep her out or make assumptions. Hell, he's shy; so when she steps close and leans on his arm, it feels like his heart is going to stop beating.  
  
But there's nothing romantic or flirtatious about the situation. As Agnes presses against him he realises how much tension, how much fear was pent up in her frame, and his worries bubble to the surface once again. He tightens his grip and steadies her, briefly reflecting that whilst he'd often dreamed of being close with her like this, he'd kind of imagined it happening under happier circumstances. Then, angry at himself for thinking about his stupid fantasies when Agnes was clearly _not okay_ , he banishes the thought from his head and helps her walk back home.  
  
Slowly they make their way to the empty little flat she lives in, its walls scorched and charred, its rooms almost empty. Agnes leans against Jack more and more as the journey goes on, for a painful weakness suffuses her bones. She isn't as weakened and shocked as she would have been had the tree on Hill Top Road truly fallen, but she's still in no state to exert herself. Her clothes and his are enough of a barrier to prevent the burning, at least for a while, but she makes sure to tilt her head so that her hair does not scorch and scar his cheek.  
  
It isn't right, she thinks sulkily. Having your date walk you home should be a nice occasion, one she had wanted to experience when she decided the time was right. She doesn't always get the point of these silly rituals humans do, but if she's going to do them herself she wants to do them _properly_.  
  
It had been a change going out for walks, heading to the movies, eating out in a restaurant together; she'd checked them off a list of things to experience and felt rather accomplished about doing so. She'd always enjoyed Jude's stories about the girlfriend she'd once had, and to try her hand at that oh-so _human_ activity had been such a fun project! The fact that it had been her choice instead of her people's, hers to control, hers to continue or abandon as she saw fit, had just added to the thrill of it all.  
  
This wasn't the same. There was no choice here. She was uncomfortable, it was tense, and it hurt.  
  
Still, it's a change to have someone fret over her. In the Flame only Jude had ever seemed to care about her feelings, but there was too much worship in Jude's eyes to ever see her as someone who needed _concern_. A cold wind whips across them and touches Agnes not at all, but Jack shivers slightly, and she feels it through the layers of clothing that keep them apart. How strange. When was the last time she felt another person save to kill them?  
  
Mind drifting, Agnes does what she can to avoid the terror gnawing at the back of her mind, and leans against Jack a little closer than is necessary as they walk to her empty flat.  
  
And when they're finally there she steps away from him, ready to go inside and convince herself of what needs to be done. She's too uncertain to justify any grand gestures, but has a feeling deep down that she knows how things will end, and that she would never see this silly human ever again.   
  
"Goodbye." She says, with just enough doubt and hope to crack the finality she tries to put into her voice.  
  
"G-good...um, good night, Agnes," Jack replies, latching desperately onto that seed of uncertainty, "See you later."  
  
She doesn't reply.  
  
"I mean, whenever you...well, anyway, I'll see you at the cafe, right?" He babbles, trying to convince himself. "On Tuesday? Like normal? Promise?"  
  
What else could she say?  
  
"...Right."  
  
*  
  
Agnes spends the next several days staring at the ceiling, wracked with too much doubt to be comfortable, but not enough to justify throwing the Desolation's chances away. Maybe she'd been exaggerating? Even if not, what if she killed herself and one of the other forces won before her power could return from the Flame? It didn't bear thinking about. But if she wasn't exaggerating, and they tried to perform the Scoured Earth with an unworthy vessel...  
  
Well, whatever the case, she couldn't die until Tuesday. She'd practically promised.  
  
And as the event recedes into the past, the fear fades. Just a little.  
  
Just enough.  
  
*  
  
Come Tuesday afternoon, Jack Barnabas finds himself in quite a state. He's broken a cup, burned his hand, and been scolded by his boss twice today; the worst day of a bad week, to be honest. Every spare second he glances at the clock, begging the hands to move faster, simultaneously dreading what will happen when the hour hand hits three.   
  
He tells himself that he's overreacting, panicking over nothing. Heaven knew he'd done that enough in his life. But something about that night in the park had cut him deeply. As he half-heartedly cleans tables and serves drinks to the dribble of people wandering into the cafe, he wonders if he should have done more.  
  
Should he have insisted Agnes go to the hospital? No, he doesn't know what the problem was, and surely she knows her own body better than he does. Or maybe he should have called someone. Like who? He doesn't know any of her friends or family or anybody like that, and it's really not his place. And calling in on her himself would have been completely out of line.  
  
If only she had a mobile phone.  
  
Now it was Tuesday, and now he was scared. Agnes had never missed a week since he'd started, and probably since long before, so if she didn't show today, what would it mean?  
  
An unwelcome thought slips into his head: What if she comes in and pays him absolutely no mind? What if things go back to how they were before he asked her out, and she blanks him utterly?  
  
It makes him feel sick. But compared to the other horror scenarios in his head, of her being ill or in trouble or...worse, it's not so bad. At least she'd be okay.  
  
Then three o'clock comes, and the door opens.  
  
Agnes looks pale and wan, her long straight hair a bedraggled mess. Her clothes are rumpled as if she's been sleeping in them, but when she fixes Jack with her lamplight gaze the bags under her eyes make him doubt she's been sleeping at all. But at least she's here, and when she reaches the counter her lips twist into that almost-smile Jack first saw when he asked her on a date.  
  
"Hi." She says, sounding tired. The smile and greeting aren't much, but they're more than she gives to any of the other people at the cafe, so it always makes him feel special. He stammers out his own greeting through a mix of relief and the giddy surge of emotion he always feels from meeting her eyes. She asks for her usual order, and as always it sounds like she's describing a wonderful novelty instead of a mundane cup of coffee.  
  
He searches desperately for words as he prepares it, and when the coffee is ready and he hands it to Agnes, he says:  
  
"It's good to see you, Agnes. You're looking a lot better, I was...kinda worried."  
  
"Why?" She asks softly, her expression not changing. The question blindsides him, and he stares tongue-tied for a moment or three before the words just start falling out of his mouth:  
  
"Because I like you? A lot? And I know you said you were fine but you didn't look it and I was scared something was wrong, so it's really nice to see you again and know that you're okay, and..." He trails off, suddenly and awkwardly aware that he's at work and there are people in the line behind her and he's pretty sure Deliah is glaring at him from the kitchen again and frankly he's afraid that he just sounds like an idiot, so...

"Thank you." Agnes says softly as she takes her drink and walks away, though whether her thanks are for the coffee or the sentiment isn't clear.

As she takes her normal chair and gazes out into the humdrum Sheffield afternoon, Agnes decides that another date is in order. The last one was so sadly cut short.  
  
They'll do things properly this time.


	2. Spiral Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Spiral Days
> 
> In which Agnes's doubt draws unwelcome attention, and Jack Barnabas has a rather bizarre experience with a blonde-haired man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What with the whole doubt thing, and Michael meeting Sasha in a cafe in canon, I felt this was appropriate.
> 
> This whole fic is a bit more plot-heavy than I thought it would be, but whatevs.

It's a quiet day in the Canyon Cafe. Few people are around on a Tuesday afternoon, and the weather is keeping people indoors - the November air has gotten cold, and rain falls from the gunmetal sky in intermittent waves. None of which bothers Agnes Montague, who walks in at her accustomed hour and orders a black coffee, before sitting down at one of her usual seats and proceeding to stare out the window.   
  
She isn't wearing a coat, Jack notices, but somehow manages to be bone dry despite the rain. Even her hair is utterly unaffected by the damp, and not a single strand of it has been blown out of place by the late autumn wind. But before the surge of giddiness that assails him every time he meets her gaze, this strange fact doesn't seem too important. And by the time he's repurposed enough brainpower to actually consider the issue, there's another customer to serve, and tables to clear, and all the other tedious tasks of the day to draw his attention. So on he goes, stealing glances at Agnes whenever he gets the chance.  
  
As usual, she looks out over the Sheffield afternoon. There's never much to see, and less than ever on a day like today. Jack wonders if perhaps she's watching the raindrops; he remembers racing them down the window as a child, betting to himself on which would reach the bottom first, watching them merge with others and trying to predict which ones would become fatter and faster instead of lingering, bloated, in place. Or maybe she's just alone with her thoughts. Even after more than a few dates, he still has little idea what those thoughts actually are.  
  
Speaking of dates, the last one had been a little...odd. Even by Agnes Montague standards.  
  
It had been a week after her scare at the park. On the Tuesday after that strange affliction she'd walked in as always, albeit looking rather the worse for wear, and had taken her coffee as usual. And then the next day she had knocked on his door.  
  
She looked a lot better by then. Not so bedraggled and sleep-deprived and stressed. She was also, he had noticed, wearing the exact same clothes as she had been on their last, cut-short date. And as he went to leave, he noticed that she had arrived at exactly the same time as the time before.  
  
They went to the park, as they had last time, and he'd noticed an unusual tension in her shoulders. And another thing he noticed was that she walked _exactly the same route_. It was as if she was trying to re-do what they'd done last week, down to the smallest detail. Over the week that had passed the nights had gotten a little darker, and by the time they reached the place where she had clutched her chest in pain it was cold and almost completely black. Agnes had made a noise then, a sort of relieved sigh, and the tension had abruptly bled out of her.  
  
It was then he'd dared to ask the question. "Hey, Agnes. Is everything, you know...alright?"  
  
Agnes hadn't responded.  
  
"I don't want to pry into something that isn't my business, but if I can help with anything, if you ever want to talk about stuff, I'm here, okay?"  
  
"Right." She'd said, tonelessly. Then, "Walk home with me?"  
  
So he did, awkwardness replaced by a dizzying surge of affection, and as they walked out of the park towards her flat Agnes had leaned on him, as she had the time before, except instead of steadying herself against him for support this time it just seemed...comfortable. He'd left her at her door and walked home in a happy daze, feeling warm and tingly despite the oppressive late-autumn cold.  
  
In fact, he'd spent the next day with a fever.  
  
A strange sight abruptly jerks Jack out of his recollections. It's so strange, in fact, that it takes him a moment to understand what he's looking at.  
  
Steam rises above Agnes' coffee cup, a sign that the drink is scalding hot despite the time that has passed since she bought it. That's strange enough. But what is truly odd is the shape being formed from it; the steam twists itself around as it rises, coiling like a spring, rising above Agnes' head into the unmistakable shape of a spiral.  
  
Then a figure steps up to the counter, making Jack jump out of his skin.  
  
He's thin with long blonde hair and he's huge, almost six and a half feet if Jack is any judge. He finds himself stepping back from the counter in alarm, and a mad certainty grips him that this person did not enter through the door, that they just...appeared, here and now, to bedevil him.  
  
"Good afternoon, how may I help you?" Jack manages to put on his best customer service voice. The person, and for some reason Jack wants to call it a _thing_ , laughs. It's a distorted, gibbering noise, and it makes Jack's skin crawl.  
  
"I do not require your help, little barista." His grin is unnervingly wide.  
  
"Well, what can I get for you to drink? Or eat? We have a special on-"  
  
"I do not eat in the way you do. Or drink. I am the throat of delusion incarnate." It laughs again, and it seems to Jack that there's something wrong about that noise. As if the blonde man is laughing very quietly, but the volume has been ramped up high for his benefit.  
  
Still, this is not the strangest customer Jack has ever met. He used to do bar work before he found the job at the cafe, and you meet some odd sorts doing that. Even if this guy is giving him a headache.  
  
"What can I do for you, then?" He says patiently. The man speaks again, and it strikes Jack that the audio metaphor was a good one; for some strange reason the man doesn't sound like he's actually be speaking, but like he's playing a distorted, imperfect recording of his own voice.  
  
"I deal in confusion, little man. In deception, in delusion, in the fear that one's own mind cannot be trusted. I am drawn here by doubt."  
  
_Oh, so he's just being a dick,_ Jack thinks. _He's a troll or a prankster or something. Some smartass who thinks it's funny to take the piss out of people just trying to do their-  
_  
Mister tall, blonde and freaky leans over the counter, slamming one hand down onto it, and it seems to Jack that his fingers are somehow sharper than fingers ought to be. His annoyance turns to discomfort almost instantly as he looks into the blonde man's eyes and struggles to make sense of the shifting, undulating hues inside of them.  
  
"I do not like being an 'I'. I did not choose to be an 'I'. 'I' is a lie to the 'what' that ought to be myself."  
  
There is rage in the blonde man's eyes now, and Jack decides that maybe he's not an asshole prankster, or even if he is, hey, he _could_ be on drugs, there was that guy last year who-  
  
A cough can be heard behind the blonde man, who stiffens and turns in a way that humans should not be able to do. Agnes stands there, looking rather impatient and annoyed.  
  
"You're holding up the line." It's a lot of words, for Agnes, and it has quite the effect - the strange customer tenses as if threatened and mumbles something under his breath. Then, turning back to the now thoroughly confused Jack Barnabas, the blonde man says in a much more normal voice:  
  
"One small almond milk latte to take out, please."  
  
He, or it, stands very politely as he receives its order, looking for all the world like a chastised schoolboy. It pays with a handful of coins that will have turned to leaves in the cash register by closing time, causing some serious confusion in the store and driving Deliah to gin, then leaves very swiftly.  
  
"Er, sir, that's the wrong door..." Jack trails off as the figure steps through and leaves, then realises that either he's going mad or the man just left through a door that wasn't there five minutes ago. He pauses, staring quizically, then remembers Agnes and banishes such unimportant things from his mind.   
  
She hasn't moved since speaking to the blonde man, and now stares blankly ahead as she waits to be served. Over on her table her coffee sits untouched, its steam now behaving normally, and when Jack thanks her she just twitches and shakes her head.  
  
"Sorry, he was kinda...anyway. What can I get you, Agnes?"  
  
And Agnes freezes up completely.  
  
See, she's been coming here for more than a decade, and every week she asks for the same thing. It's a cozy little routine and she's happy with the simplicity of it all. Sure, occasionally something unusual will happen, like when that annoying man wouldn't stop talking to her and she had to burn him to make him go away. Or more pleasantly, when she got asked on a date. But for the most part she's used to her routine: Order coffee, sit down, spend time in cafe like a normal human being. She only walked up to the counter a second time to shoo away that tiresome little manifestation of the Spiral, which was easy enough, but now she's stuck here and expected to say something human? She's lost.  
  
They stand staring at each other for a little while, Agnes' fair cheeks darkening whilst Jack loses himself in her eyes. Then, as the bell rings and another customer enters the shop, Agnes blurts out the first thing that comes into her head:  
  
"One small almond milk latte to take out, please!"  
  
Hey, it was good enough for Michael.   
  
A now thoroughly bewildered Jack prepares it, at which point Agnes grabs the drink, pays (with real money, barely remembering to make the effort not to heat it to burning temperatures) and rushes out the door.  
  
The real door.  
  
Speaking of, when Jack turns to look at where the blonde man left, he sees nothing but a bare wall. But his nerves are so frazzled from the events of the day that he just chalks the whole thing up to his imagination.  
  
*  
  
"All that time I thought it was that dull little fellow. But it was you, wasn't it? That miasma of uncertainty and doubt. The whole place reeked of it."  
  
Agnes is halfway home when she hears the voice and turns, irritated. A door has opened where none stood before, and within it she sees the Distortion without its human guise. Thin and twisted, each hand the size of its own torso, one of them still holding what was once a cup of coffee. It leans against the doorway, and flashes her a migraine-spawning smile.  
  
"I don't know what you mean." She says flatly. Her own cup warps and distorts from the hellish heat that radiates from within her body, the lid falling away and the structure crumpling to spill superheated almond-flavoured froth all over Agnes' hand. It does not harm her, nor does she flinch from pain.  
  
"You try to lie, to me?" Michael laughs his demon laugh. "I can taste it, it eats at you like a cancer. Tell me, do you really think your people can win with you in that state?"  
  
It hits hard, and Agnes crushes the rest of her cup in sheer rage. But there's always an out, with the Spiral. "You're trying to trick me." She whispers.  
  
"Mmm...perhaps. But for what? Am I goading you to give up? Or do I want you to try and fail and burn yourself out? Or am I just watching, neutral as usual, and having fun?"  
  
"Get out of my business." Agnes' voice is firm.  
  
"Oh? Do you mean your cult's plans? Or your cafe? Or perhaps your pet-"  
  
"Out!" She screams the word, proving that beneath her calm and serene appearance there still lurks a lethal rage, and the Distortion recoils back into its door as people a square kilometer around find themselves dizzy and feverish and riddled with phantom pain from the ripple of hot rage that blasts from Agnes Montague like the heat from an open oven door.  
  
"No need to be so cruel," Michael purrs, "after all, we are both trapped in states hateful to us. We were hurt by the same person," its voice turns to one of hatred, "by Gertrude Robinson."  
  
Agnes has had enough. She strides forwards, hand outstretched, threat clear: _Even as a child, my own people could not withstand my power. Shall we see what my fire does inside your corridors, Spiral whelp? I will step inside and burn your twisted guts._  
  
Michael, wisely, retreats. Agnes stares at the wall where the door swings shut and disappears, then begins to kick it out of rage. A family coming up the street crosses the road to avoid her, and her kicks leave scorchmarks on the paint which passers-by will puzzle over for many weeks to come.  
  
*  
  
As Jack Barnabas makes his own way home, he can't help but feel a good mood coming on. It's not a common thing, but he's feeling pretty positive. Today was the first time he'd ever seen Agnes break her routine, and it was to save him from some weirdo. Maybe the guy just annoyed her, but it still makes him happy; she hadn't had to do that, and the way she acted afterward...He replays the exchange between him and Agnes as he walks, remembering the blush on her face, how cutely flustered she got.  
  
She really was just a very sweet girl underneath it all, wasn't she?


	3. Winter Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes doesn't feel the cold. Jack is not so lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was finished in a rush: since it's set in Autumn, I needed to post it before I can upload my now slightly late Christmas chapter. It's a bit cutesy, but there's nothing wrong with that.

"Are you ready to go?" Agnes asks as usual.   
  
Autumn is nearly at its end but she's dressed as if it's still the height of summer, in a peach coloured skirt and a shirt of apple-green. Something about the colours and the long skirt and the billowing sleeves seems, like so many of her outfits, to be strangely old fashioned; she puts Jack in mind of a beauty model from the Sixties or Seventies, all willowy and elegant in those old, grainy colour photos. She could _be_ a model if she felt like it, he thinks, blood rushing to his cheeks and butterflies fluttering in his stomach at the sight of her. Then, afraid that he might be staring, Jack snaps himself out of it.  
  
"Yeah, I'm ready," By now he's gotten used to being called on without warning, "Just..."  
  
He trails off as he notices his breath turn to steam in the cold air, feels the hint of frost on the breeze as it whips through his open door, "...wait, don't you have a coat?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you want one?"  
  
"No."  
  
_...Okay then._  
  
As they head out it strikes him that last winter, when the idea of even talking to Agnes had seemed a ridiculous fantasy, had been similar. It hadn't been until well into December that she'd suddenly switched to winter clothing - she'd been wearing light shirts and airy dresses in defiance of the cold, only to appear the week before Christmas bedecked in coat, gloves, hat, and scarf. It was almost as if she hadn't noticed the weather at all, only that the people around her had changed, and had changed herself so as to better blend in.  
  
But that would be ridiculous.  
  
Like always, he asks her where they're going, and like always, she looks at him like he's an idiot. He likes to think there's a fondness to her exasperation when he asks the question, although sometimes he worries he might be wrong.  
  
They're going to walk in the park, she says. A common standby.  
  
It soon turns out to be even chillier than Jack thought, and he finds himself glad for his coat as he and Agnes walk through Bole Hill Park, kicking through russet-coloured leaves and watching the trees that shed them sway in the quickening breeze. His fingers are red with the cold and quickly going numb, that strange harsh numbness that can turn so quickly to pain at the slightest impact. He hasn't been able to feel his ears since they left, and reflects that he should have brought a hat.   
  
And so the fact that Agnes is strolling through this frigid afternoon in a shirt and skirt is _rather disconcerting_.  
  
"You sure you're okay like that?"   
  
That annoyed look appears on her face again. "Yes."  
  
Jack knows when to drop a subject.  
  
As they meander through the park they pass other people, alone or in couples or groups, all much better dressed for the weather. Several look at the severely underdressed Agnes oddly, though in fairness, she is quite noticeable (so pretty!). A few look at him too, and Jack thinks he sees judging expressions on their faces. He almost wants to yell at them: _I asked her! Twice! I'm not being an inconsiderate boyfriend, I swear!_  
  
Although maybe they're just judging him for dating out of his league. Jack snatches a glance at Agnes, ethereally beautiful in the windswept evening, and finds that wholly believable.  
  
The day is growing dark when it happens. The wind picks up suddenly and blows in their faces, hard enough to bring tears to Jack's eyes. Agnes doesn't flinch at the harsh gust of air, but she stops in her tracks and suddenly says:  
  
"It's cold."  
  
This is true. It is cold. The fact that Agnes is completely unaffected by said cold has no bearing on the matter.  
  
"I knew I should have brought you a coat. Why didn't you say anything? It's almost December, Agnes, you can't just go out in a shirt all the time!" Jack is all concern all at once, undoing his jacket as he speaks.  
  
"It is cold." Agnes repeats. Her voice is a flat monotone, like an unearthly figure in the woods from an urban legend, mimicking human behaviour to lure in its prey. Not that Jack Barnabas really registers this, since he's too busy trying to undo buttons using fingers numbed by the cold. He's lucky he doesn't live in Anglerfish territory.  
  
"I am cold."  
  
This isn't totally a lie. Her cult might serve with fire and heat but that is a human conceit. There are other ways to invoke loss and devastation, and ice, starvation, and disease will serve their cruel patron as sure as any flame. And Agnes is a little more pure, closer to their god than the rest. Oh, she always burns. But sometimes she hungers, and sometimes she aches, and sometimes she freezes.  
  
She isn't actually feeling it right now, though. She's mostly just pretending to be cold, like she pretends to be a human, because she knows that being given your partner's coat in the cold is a Thing Humans Do On Dates. It's just like watching a movie or going to a restaurant. She doesn't need it, and it won't change anything, so like many such rituals the whole thing strikes her as rather pointless. But then, she supposes the ritual _is_ the point.  
  
So imagine her surprise when she does feel something. Jack offers her his jacket, draping it across her shoulders, and it feels...nice. It reminds her of how she leaned on him for support on that awful night when she thought she was doomed. It's a kind thing, an effort to help her, and she feels, for lack of a better word, warm inside. She's suddenly aware of how close they are, how the act of offering the coat brings his arm around her shoulders as if preparing to embrace her, and she relishes it.  
  
Agnes fastens the coat up, noticing her date beginning to shiver. The sun has almost set and she would have liked to watch it - it's nice to see it seemingly falling to earth, to imagine nightfall consuming all life in hellish fire even as it drains the light from the world. But Jack is already looking uncomfortable despite his best efforts to hide it, and even as a child, it was said that Agnes was quiet, hot-tempered...and considerate.  
  
There'll be more sunsets.  
  
She murmurs about going home and leads the way to the nearest exit. The park is emptying out now, but as they approach the way out they run into other people more and more. And Agnes, a consummate people-watcher, notices something. People glance at her and smile. They do double-takes, look amused. She sees one girl nudge her partner and giggle behind her hand, but it's not a cruel thing. And she realises why: The coat she's wearing is obviously not her own; it's big on her, and the sleeves dangle over the ends of her hands. Add to this her now-underdressed companion, and the situation becomes clear. The other people recognise what they're doing.  
  
_I'm fitting in_ , she thinks with quiet satisfaction. It mingles with the warmth she felt at Jack's offer, and leaves her feeling that this has been a good date, as they go.  
  
Meanwhile, Jack thinks that it's worth the cold to see people look at him and Agnes like that.  
  
They part ways with Agnes still wearing his coat - by now the buttons are so hot that they should be glowing were it not a Lightless Flame that heats them, so she can't exactly give it back just yet. He freezes his way back home, but even as he shivers, he feels warm inside.   
  
The following day, Agnes stalks into the Canyon Cafe bedecked in her own coat, not to mention boots, gloves, winter hat, and scarf. Jack isn't working today, so she hands his neatly folded jacket to the girl behind the counter, who stashes it in the back for safekeeping. "And you are...?" The girl asks, who hasn't been working long enough to know about the local cryptid.  
  
Agnes pauses. Is she saying this right?

"His girlfriend."  
  
And when Jack learns she said that, it makes his whole week.


	4. Candles at Christmas part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes is not the most festive of people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS
> 
> Considering episode 191, I'm posting this (and the next few chapters) as quickly as I can in case the entire basis of this fic gets jossed by Thursday, so apologies if some of the material is slightly rushed. I hope you still enjoy what I offer.
> 
> Also take it from me, working a bad customer service job over Christmas really does sour you to festive songs.

"So, you got any plans over the holidays?"

"Not much."   
  
The other members of her cult will have their schemes - they like to hurt people at this time of year, despoiling a time supposedly dedicated to love and goodwill. But their messiah can't be bothered.  
  
"I'll probably go visit my dad over Christmas. How about you?"  
  
"Visit people." Her birth was not the only time the Lightless Flame had aped the Christians - they tended to meet around the new year, to discuss points of theology (which Agnes finds boring and uncomfortable) and one-up each other with tales of torture and sadism (during which they generally sound like teenage boys lying about their sexual prowess). Diego thinks they should change the date, but nobody ever listens to him.   
  
"Like, family? Friends? Or-"  
  
"My church." Agnes isn't too fond of the arrangement either, but for all her holy status, she ends up a figurehead being given marching orders more often than not.  
  
"That, um, sounds nice."  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Her church. Alright. Jack has figured a few things out by now: Agnes was adopted, she went to some sort of boarding school, and her upbringing was highly religious, though what _sort_ of religious he's yet to figure out. She believes she has a destiny, but she doesn't seem to like the idea. In fact, for someone whose religion is apparently an active force in their life, she seems decidedly unenthusiastic about it. And she doesn't seem to have a problem with dating an atheist.   
  
That last thought steers his mind onto a rather different topic.  
  
 _She called herself my girlfriend._

His face heats up at the thought, and he steals a glance at her as they walk. She's started dressing properly for the weather at long last, wrapped up better than he is in coat and gloves, matching hat, and a rather striking red scarf. Is it his imagination, or are they walking closer together than before?  
  
"That scarf looks really nice on you, Agnes."  
  
"Thanks." She says after a second. It's said in a rather listless tone, but he'll take it. And yes, he's _sure_ they've gotten closer. Experimentally, ready to draw back quickly if it turns out he's being too forward, Jack brushes his arm against hers. She doesn't respond but she doesn't pull away either, and looking at her face reveals only that normal near-smile. Heart hammering in his chest, hearing his own pulse in his ears, Jack then loops his arm around her own.   
  
Her head flicks around. Her eyes are like lamps, and he is nothing but an insect to be drawn in and burned away. He's transfixed, feels like he can't breathe, whilst a rush of emotion he can't name or control rises up like a tidal wave and then-   
  
-her face turns away again and she grips his own elbow in turn, so that they walk arm in arm down the road like any other happy couple you'd care to name.  
  
Jack finds himself smiling a giddy smile. If there's such thing as a pleasant sort of fear, he's feeling it.

And on they go. They're going to the Sheffield Christmas Market today, she says. You get them in every city; sheds and shops and a few attractions here and there. Multicoloured lights and food places. A Santa's Grotto for the kids. That sort of thing. People wander between to and fro buying food and drink, scouting out last-minute presents and humouring their children, serenaded by festive music that ranges from the cute to the obnoxious.  
  
Jack grimaces at the sound, causing Agnes to look at him with something that might be curiosity. He frowns before elaborating: "You ever worked retail over Christmas?"  
  
No. No she has not.  
  
"Because if there's one thing that'll turn you off Christmas songs, it's that." Jack grouses as his date beelines in at a food stall, pulling him along by their still-linked arms. They order some mulled wine, a novelty, deep red and steaming hot. Agnes doesn't drink hers, whilst Jack singes his lips - it seems somehow hotter than it should be.   
  
"They start in about November and they _never end_. Where I used to work they had _one_ Christmas album, and they played it on constant loop from the first of November to New Years Day. Even the good ones ended up annoying, and besides, it's hard to appreciate all that peace and love stuff when you've been run off your feet for hours, the queue reaches out the door and someone's screaming in your face because she can't find the gift she wants. If there's one good thing about working at Canyon, it's that we don't do holidays."  
  
"Oh?" A careful observer would have noted a strange expression appear on Agnes's face.  
  
"I mean, other than meeting you obviously." He squeezes her arm a little.  
  
"But...yeah," Jack continues, "You must have noticed. We don't play holiday music, don't put anything up for Christmas, Easter, Halloween..."  
  
"Yes." She's noticed.  
  
"Well, there's actually a bit of a superstition about it. Apparently we used to, but every time we did, something would go wrong. The electrics exploded. The kitchen set on fire. Someone poured scalding water all over herself. I wasn't around back then so I thought Deliah was just making it up 'cause she hated the holidays, but I actually found some old Halloween stuff in the back once. It was melted and burned like someone had shoved it next to a fire."  
  
Agnes thinks back to when she first started not drinking coffee, to the first October, when she saw the Cafe festooned with paper spiders and cotton webs and decided she _would not stand for it_. She'd been very restrained; nobody died or was seriously maimed. The damage was repairable; of course it was. After all, she still needed to get her coffee there afterwards. She'd left just enough unexplained damage, just often enough, for them to learn to keep the Mother of Puppets the hell away from her. Guy Fawkes' Day was a better holiday anyway, and Agnes still has a grudge towards Halloween for overshadowing it.  
  
She'd been vaguely amused to see the staff extend their fear to other holidays, and had always wondered how they rationalised it. And now she knows.  
  
Jack stands bewildered as her face twists between emotions: curiosity, surprise, embarassment, was that _guilt?_ \- before, finally, Agnes starts to laugh. It's a very odd laugh, sounding almost rusty, like she hasn't used it in a very long time. But that doesn't stop it from charming him utterly.  
  
Time passes in a daze. Agnes steers them from stall to stall, her grip still tight on Jack's arm. Whatever it contains, food or gifts or party games, she always acts the same: She walks up to them, examines the contents robotically, then moves on. Whenever the people manning the booths try to speak to her, she ignores them - Jack ends up doing the talking, saying variants on _oh, we're just looking around!_ whenever the staff look disconcerted or offended.   
  
In the time he gets before Agnes moves on, Jack looks over the gifts on offer; it's mostly twee little trinkets, but he's trying to find inspiration: He's been struggling for a while to think of presents for Agnes. It's an age old problem - you've not been dating someone very long, Christmas (or a birthday, or whatever) rolls around, what's appropriate? How much do you get them? Is it too early to invite them to spend the day with you? Is it inappropriate not to? These questions are awkward enough for normal couples, let alone when your special someone is...let's say _quirky._  
  
His cup of spiced wine seems to be permanently boiling, but that's not such a bad thing in weather like this. He has to sip it gingerly for fear of burning himself, but the heat soon becomes more pleasant and comforting than anything else. It certainly keeps his hand warm. And somehow, the hand attached to the arm looped around Agnes Montague's elbow seems warm too. In fact, for all that he knows it's cold, he can't really feel it: Whether it's his crush or the wine or something altogether different, for some strange reason Jack feels very warm indeed.  
  
There's not that much to see at the market this year and in the end they wander out, into the Peace Gardens, and to god knows where after that. Agnes is leading the way, and Jack isn't quite ready to disentangle himself from her arm quite yet. Then she stops, outside a church of all things, and stares.  
  
There are candles inside the windows, and a nativity scene built outside. All the usual suspects are there. Baby Jesus himself, the newborn messiah with full supporting cast: His loving family, the Wise Men, the shepherds and angel and star and all the rest. Agnes inspects it silently, before shaking her head suddenly, violently. A tension appears in her body, her arm stiffening, and all of a sudden she looks incredibly bitter and very, very tired.  
  
Then she walks over to the candles.  
  
Her arm slips out of Jack's as she stares again, craning forwards until her face almost touches the glass. She watches them unblinkingly as they melt away slowly, her breath slowing, the sudden tension melting just as suddenly from her frame. She even sways, rocking gently back and forth, all her worldly attention focused on the fire.  
  
A good five minutes pass. Jack shifts uncomfortably, for the bitter cold has suddenly returned, and listens to carolers in the distance. Until eventually:  
  
"Agnes? You alright?"  
  
She snaps back to reality. "Yes."  
  
"You must really like candles, huh?"  
  
Agnes takes a moment to answer. "I guess I must."

They head home shortly after, and Jack suddenly knows exactly what presents to get for her.


End file.
